


Color Theory

by xwynn



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Some Fluff, Some angst, a lot of feelings, and are left up to the reader to decide when they occur, events do not happen in chronological order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-09-30 20:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10171088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xwynn/pseuds/xwynn
Summary: Kuroo doesn't know much about colors or their meanings or any of that artsy stuff. But he has Bokuto there to teach him.(A story about Bokuto and Kuroo through the lens of seven different colors and what exactly it means to love.)





	1. let go

**Author's Note:**

> One day I saw a [post](http://xwynn.tumblr.com/post/143198473440/whoarei-she-guessed-my-favorite-color-first%E2%80%9C%E2%80%9D) and ran with it. 
> 
> Thank you to GG and Brenda for their continuous support, encouragement, and for always gassing me up when I need it the most. (And also for putting up with my shit and helping me do things.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a playlist to accompany the fic. The [8tracks](https://8tracks.com/wynnnie/color-theory) playlist has more in-depth info and the [Playmoss](https://playmoss.com/en/xwynn/playlist/color-theory) playlist has extra songs on there.

Kuroo doesn’t have a favorite color. Never thought it was important enough to sit down and pick out one singular pigment to be his ultimate favorite. Sure he always said whatever color he was supposed to like, whatever color _boys_ were supposed to like (blue, green, red, but _never_ pink) but he didn’t have one. Didn’t want one.

There’s a gaggle of boys around him, all in his grade, all first years. All loud, and obnoxious, and awkward. Just as teenagers are known to be.

They’re supposed to be doing a ‘getting to know each other’ exercise-an ice breaker-but Kuroo feels a chill set in his spine, colder than any ice that he could ever possibly shatter. The kids around him poke and prod and shove at each other in the tiny room they’ve been assigned to sleep in but they are _warm_ , warm with each other and themselves; and Kuroo watches on with knees pulled up to his chest, arms crossed over his calves as he wishes that he maybe he too could be warm like them.

“It's important to build relationships not only with your teammates, but also, with your opponents. The bonds you have with your rivals, will not only strengthen you as a player, but also as a person,” this is the coach's’ reasoning for grouping them together with people not of their own team. This is what Kuroo recites to himself when a shiver slithers down his spine, what he remembers when he presses his back into the corner of the wall looking for even the slightest inkling of warmth. This is what he hears when he is cold, and alone, because his teammates are in other rooms with people they probably know, people who are not afraid to lend a little of their heat to to others. “ _Strengthen you as a player,”_ this is what desperately swims around his mind as a useless comfort, because he is alone, because this is his first training camp and Kenma is not here to share it with him. The statement dips and curves and spins in his brain, a futile memory in the presence of knowledge that before Kenma, Kuroo didn’t really have any friends, that Kenma is the only one who’s ever spared him any kind of warmth.

“I bet I can guess your favorite color.”

Kuroo looks up at the looming creator of the shadow now covering him.

(Bokuto’s his name, Kuroo remembers only for the fact that he’s heard it yelled so much during matches.)

Kuroo doesn’t answer him, just simply looks. Looks at the smile across his face, the all white dyed hair, the tilt of Bokuto’s torso and the hands on his hips.

Kuroo doesn’t frown nor does he smile, but he feels his spine curve back off the wall into his regular terrible posture with something that he’s been hoping for.

Bokuto’s takes his passiveness in stride, sitting down in front of him, legs crossed in front. “I bet it's a really light color something like-”

Kuroo opens his mouth to reply, give him one of the colors that he’s supposed to say but is stopped with frantic hands waving in his face.

“No, no, no! Don’t tell me, I got this,” he says and Kuroo clamps his mouth shut immediately, suppressing the amused little smile struggling to make way as he watches Bokuto think.

 _He’s so lively,_ Kuroo thinks, watching the boy across him exaggerate his pondering with pointed looks to the ceiling and a rubbed chin.

“Aha!” Bokuto exclaims, “it's yellow isn’t it?”

Kuroo doesn’t have a favorite color. Never thought it was important enough to sit down and pick out one singular pigment to be his ultimate favorite.

But there is yellow speckled in Bokuto’s golden irises, sharp and prominent in the pool of gold, melding into it like a blacksmith’s smelting pot.

And Kuroo finds that this particular shade of yellow, the one that resides within the boy who radiates a certain type of electric warmth, is something that he quite enjoys so he smiles and says, “you’re right.”

* * *

 

Kuroo finds an odd type of solace on the Tokyo train to Bokuto’s apartment.

The train car shakes him softly, bumping here and there like a mother rocking a child as he watches the trees lining the track race by in their bright, colorful bloom and Kuroo heaves a contented sigh at the voice talking at him in his ear.

“Yeah so I either completely bombed my final or I aced it like a champ,” Bokuto says through Kuroo’s phone receiver, “there's really no in between.”

“I’m sure you did fine, unless you fell asleep during it - not that I’d put it past you.”

“That was a one time thing!” Bokuto defends, but Kuroo can hear his smile through the phone, like a instant telegram.

“You say that now,” he says, softly laughing into the receiver. The train slides to a halt and Kuroo presses himself to the back of his seat to let people by, the spring breeze rushing in for a place to stay before the doors close them out again. “What final did you take again?”

“Color theory, it's one of those classes where the material seems easy as hell but when it comes time for exams its like you just shat it out the ass.”

Kuroo can hear him shuffling around, then a loud ‘shit!’ heard in the distance.

“I totally did not just drop my phone on my toe, but _anyway_ , colors? So cool- like orange?” Kuroo hears the excitement in his voice, can feel that Bokuto loves what he’s doing and learning and _being_ ; and it makes his heart swell with happiness-happiness to see his best friend doing everything he’s ever wanted in life. Something that he especially deserves.

“You’re an orange kind of guy y’know?”

“Explain.”

“I _mean_ , wait hold on a sec-” Kuroo presses the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he rummages through his bag, and looks out the window to see how late it's gotten. Hues of pink and grey swirl in the clouds, boats of color in the vast disappearing blue - a vibrant red chasing it off from its place in the horizon, ready to bask in the attention of skywatchers before nightfall can come and steal its spotlight. Kuroo lazily wonders how would Bokuto describe it, how the pinks would reflect in his eyes as he talks about the greys, how he would look, stained in the rising red of the sky when he formulates what brush he would use or what shade of blue he would pick to paint the rich pools up above.

“What was I saying again?” Bokuto asks, returning to the phone.

“Orange,” he looks away from the windows, finally finding the snack in his bag, “you said I was, ‘an orange kind of guy.’”

“Oh yeah! You’re an orange but like… not all of you, just certain parts,” there’s a lag in his thoughts and Kuroo is patient for Bokuto to find the right words, “like your laugh! It’s very orange - light orange, its...its bright and lively; but also soothing and very homey. It's like when you spend all day at the beach y’know? And you’re worn out from swimming and having fun all day, and then you finally get to sit down on the warm sand and close your eyes as the sun sets.”

“Your laugh, it's just,” Bokuto says, his stream of consciousness steadily slowing and Kuroo hears him lets out an awkward little laugh. And it’s odd, but his chest is tight and constricted with effort of trying its best to keep his beating heart within. And It’s strange but Kuroo finds himself fighting down a face splitting grin and its blushing teammate. But most of all he finds bizarre, is that there is more comfort and contentedness found in Bokuto’s rough voice speaking through his phone, than a train, or sunset, or _anything_ could offer. Kuroo wants to know more about this. Wants to learn and research this feeling, until he’s no longer able to separate himself from his findings, til it's as much of him as he is of it.

Bokuto laugh filters through the receiver, breathy but rough, akin to something that Kuroo isn’t able to pinpoint just yet. “Your laugh is just really fucking nice.”

* * *

 

Everyday of the year, Kuroo is met with more green than he personally knows what to do with. It paints his walls, grows out his countertops and table, follows him on his way to work and back again. It exists in the streams and lakes, has found its way into his clothes, and infested the mop he calls hair. but most of all it has taken residence within Bokuto, and _this_ is where he draws the line.

“Don’t you think this is too much?” Kuroo asks, swiping away the (green, so very green) leaves off the windowsill and back to where they belong. (Outside, in the bushes, Kuroo thinks, which is also very, very green.)

“What is too much?” Bokuto’s voice sounds from the hallway, along with the hammer and knocks against the wall as he hangs up another painting - it's the third one this month.

“Green, it’s just so much, I mean,” he says, joining him in the hallway, “just _look_.”

Bokuto just keeps hammering away, adjusting the painting every few seconds. “I think it looks fine,” he says, then takes a step back to admire his handiwork.

“Of course it looks fine, that's not what I meant”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Kuroo comes to stand next to him. Hip to hip. “We live in a greenhouse Kou. _Literally.”_

“You act like there's not a single other color in this house,” Bokuto says, rolling his eyes.

“Are you trying to tell me you haven't noticed?”

And this time Bokuto actually looks. There's not much to see from his position in the hallway, but he spots the leaves of the succulents that sit in the living room, knows the jade plant, small and tiny in its first stages of sprouting as it rests atop their dresser. And the philodendron, that grows in the nook of the windowsill with its heart shaped leaves hanging above the kitchen sink. But still, Bokuto doesn’t think it's as much as Kuroo says, and he tells him as much.

“You’re obviously exaggerating Tetsu, if you have some type of grudge against the plants just say it.”

Kuroo snorts, Bokuto immediately furrowing his eyebrows at the sound. “Okay, but what about the towels? They’re green.”

“Oh come on, that was the housewarming gift from your mom!”

“And the pots and pans?”

“They were the only ones that didn't look cheap as hell that we could afford - you were there.”

“Alright, alright; but what about the doormat.”

“You picked out the doormat”

“Hey! It was funny, I had no intention of it being green”

 _“_ I’ll give you that one,” Bokuto says, laughing a bit, “It is pretty funny.”

They stand there for awhile. Side by side in their silence, admiring the painting.

It’s a beautiful painting, really and truly, breathtaking yet comforting, something that Kuroo knows only Bokuto is capable of creating. The weeping willow trees lay in the background, their pear green color highlighted by soft yellows. Lotus flowers decorate the painted water, calm and peaceful, surrounded by the lively grass that springs out the banks of the pond, casting soft shadows onto the flowers underneath it.

Kuroo almost feels like he’s there. Can feel the heat of the sun beating on his skin, or the gentle breeze through his hair. Can hear the rustle of the grass as it blows softly in the wind, the sound so real that Kuroo almost wants to reach out and feel the bristles of the cattails underneath his fingertips.

“Its… its captivating,” he says, practically breathless. And maybe he is, maybe the air has run thin and he’s living in a Bokuto created world where all he can do is look and smile.

Bokuto beams at the compliment, the expression not even in Kuroo’s vision but he knows it's there, like the sun in the painting has brightened and it's all Kuroo feels.

(Maybe he’s been breathless this whole time, he thinks, he’s breathless and he’s now just realizing it.)

Bokuto shifts to lean on the doorframe, exhaling. “I think it suits us, y’know?”

“I really do not know,” he says, falling to rest on the opposite wall.

Bokuto laughs at that. Kuroo has always been bad at the whole ‘art’ thing. “Green is supposed to be new life, and prosperity, and all that other growth and life stuff. I think it fits.”

“We got a nicer place,” Kuroo says, holding out one finger,

“that's new right?”

“Yup.”

“I got a new - _better_ job.” Two fingers.

“Us?” Bokuto points in between each other, “that's gotta count for prosperity or something.”

Three fingers. “Of course.”

“Is that it? I think that's it, I can’t think of anything else.”

Kuroo looks at the painting. Feels that breathless feelings swirl up in his chest again. (But when did it ever leave?) “Yeah, that's it.”

There's a smile on Bokuto’s face when he looks at Kuroo. Warm and gentle, like the sun in painting. Breathtaking like the lotus flowers and the willow trees. Captivating like the cattails that hang over the clear blue pond. A smile that is everlasting, that speaks of life and happiness. Something that is them.

(Four fingers.)

“Yeah,” Kuroo says, “it does suit us.”

* * *

 

It is not late. It is five minutes past ten but it - _he_ is not late. (They’ve established it, house rules, ten minutes is late but five minutes is not.)

It is five minutes past ten and he is not late, but Kuroo’s jaw is clenched and tight for reasons he doesn’t want to acknowledge. There's not a muscle in his body that is not pulled taut, every part of him rigid and stick straight like a child who’s just been scolded for bad posture, as he washes the dishes, movements almost robotic.

It is six minutes past ten and he is not late.

Seven minutes, and there's not a single sound in the house other than the noise of Kuroo’s even breathing and the splashing of water.

Eight minutes and Kuroo’s glances at the door.

(That red fucking door.)

Nine minutes past ten and his fingers have seemed to drill holes in every dish from how hard he grips it when the door handle jiggles.

“Nine minutes! I’m not late.”

It is ten minutes past ten and Bokuto is not late. But there is still a tightness in his jaw, no relief in muscles, every fiber of his being pulled taut like a bow that's been strung too tightly.

And this is the part that he hates. Hates the casualness of how Bokuto slides off his shoes and locks the door, always careful, always conscientiousness. Hates the questioning, the back and forth that never quite reaches the answer he knows is there. _Is it worth it? Should you do this?_

But most of all he hates the beginning. The deep breaths, the closed eyes, the anxiety twisting in his gut.

(Because the answer’s always yes.)

He hears Boktuo pad into the kitchen. Can feel his eyes, examining, scrutinizing. Hears the sigh that escapes him, that is much to weary and tired for his young age, all previous cheeriness leaving him in one single exhale.

(How many times have they done this now?)

“What's wrong?” He’s leaning on the counter now, those red counters that match the door. The ones that he, _they_ , had smiled at with fresh hope and happiness to live the way they wanted to, where they wanted to, for the first time in their lives.

(He hates this. Hates the beginnings. Hates the baited breath, the waiting, the stillness.)

“Nothing.” He’s been scrubbing the same dish now for the past five minutes and Kuroo almost wants to laugh from how much he reminds himself of his mother.

Bokuto leans his head against the cabinets. Watches Kuroo scrub, and scrub, and scrub. “Why are we doing this?” It's the even way he says it, quiet, and calm, like a boring lecturer. Its _that_ , that twists the bitter hot knife in his gut, searing with an intensity that has no plans of going away.

“You _know_ why.” He doesn’t spat it out, doesn’t yell it, but it's a whisper through gritted teeth that he knows what sparks it.

It’s very sudden that it happens. The tension snapping like a simple snip of scissors.

“ _Actually,_ I don’t,” he’s pushing off the counter, moving, moving, moving. Always one to do things with flourish and force. “Maybe I would if you actually talked to me for once. But you never do, do you?”

Kuroo doesn’t know when they’ve moved into this - this ugly, hideous thing of passive aggressiveness, of quiet anger, and loud bitterness. He doesn’t know when they’ve become comfortable locking doors and throwing hurt glances, but he knows it was a long time coming. And the fact alone eats him up inside til there's nothing left but pain. “What's the point, huh? You’re never here in the first place to _talk_ to, and when you are - which is rarely,” he scoffs, harsh and cutting, “you’re always avoiding me.” He lets out a shaky breath and he feels himself slipping, falling into something much more uglier and grotesque than he wants to show. A nose dive into an abyss that's he spent so long covering up. “What is it, huh? Can’t stand to be around me anymore? Am I that unenjoyable that you would rather be literally anywhere but here? Is that it?”

“Don’t. Don’t you _dare,”_ Bokuto’s grip on the refrigerator door is so tight Kuroo thinks he might dent it. “That's not what this is about and you know it. This, this is about _you_ \- you never giving a damn how _I_ feel. This is about,” Bokuto closes his eyes, heaves a breath and suddenly time has seemed to slow down. The words tumbling out of Bokuto’s mouth seem too loud, grating against his ears and Kuroo doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t want to- “I know that things are stressful. With school and work, your parents and the divorce, I know it makes things hard, I get it okay. God, I get it, but you have to - you have to talk to _me_ Tetsu.”

And this is what he hates. The quiet of Bokuto’s voice, the calm in the eye of the storm. Hates that there is no tears, no yelling, no screaming, no slammed doors; just them in the storm of their first happy little home, with their red stained counters and the peeling red paint on the door.

“It hurts okay, it hurts and you’re hurting, but I can’t- I can’t help you, or _us_ , if you don’t talk to me. I need you to talk to me so we can, _fuck_ ,” his voice wobbles, but he does not cry, does not sniffle, but looks Kuroo head on with eyes so pained and the sight hits Kuroo hard like a bullet train, leaving him flattened and weak in its wake, “it's hard for me to believe that you trust me if you don’t talk to me.”

But what he hates most of all is the silence. His silence. It pours into the kitchen, flowing into every room, every nook and crevice, and out the door. And it takes Bokuto with it.

“I’ll be at Akaashi’s.”

There are no tears, no yelling, no screaming, no slammed doors just Kuroo in the eye of the storm of his happy little home and the red locked door.


	2. let's go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing isn't easy. Nor is growth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a playlist to accompany the fic. The [8tracks](https://8tracks.com/wynnnie/color-theory) playlist has more in-depth info and the [Playmoss](https://playmoss.com/en/xwynn/playlist/color-theory) playlist has extra songs on there.

It’s insignificant really, Bokuto’s old blue sweatshirt. It didn’t hold any meaning to him. No stories attached to it. It wasn’t a gift, not something that he had to have, not even one of his favorites. 

It was something he bought on a whim, in a thrift store, for reasons of just because. 

There's no importance to that old blue sweatshirt of his, Kuroo could have thrown it out, donated it like he did all the other stuff, yet he still finds it in his possession almost a year later. 

And Kuroo thinks it's kinda hilariously sad on how cliche he looks still holding on to it. Like some poor broken hearted boy right out of a drama.

It never held any significance for Bokuto but Kuroo always folds it with care. Moves it to the back of his dresser drawer, snips any frays that appear on the cuffs, and throws it in the wash whenever he feels it's acquired too much dust. 

He doesn’t wear it. Doesn’t even hold it up to his nose for a whiff of something familiar. (His smell has long since disappeared anyway.)    
  
But there are times, when Kuroo is getting dressed and he can’t seem to find anything to wear that he sees it - hidden in the back corner of the drawer as always. And it's then that Kuroo starts to think. Think about the times he’s seen him wear it. On morning jogs when the air is still too chilly, or lazy weekends when they both had all the time in the world, or even late nights when they were both sticky and sweaty with grins that stretched as wide as ever, and Bokuto is looking for something to save himself from the cold.   
  
Its then, when he’s standing there, alone in what used to be their bedroom, that Kuroo realizes that's it been almost a whole year. And that he really ought to return it.   
  
And so, he does.   
  
He wants to laugh, really and truly, because he’s on Bokuto’s doorstep, uninvited and definitely unplanned. And all he has for an excuse is an old blue sweatshirt.   
  
This has got to be funny, Kuroo thinks, it just has to be because he’s furiously wringing his hands around the material, twisting it until it's sure to have wrinkles and Kuroo just knows that there is someone laughing at him through the blinds of their window.   
  
“Hello-” the door swings open, and Kuroo almost drops the sweatshirt on the ground at the sight. “-Oh. Kuroo. Hi?”   
  
Bokuto’s expression doesn’t light up when he sees him, but nor does it fall and Kuroo decides to take that as a victory. “Hi? I mean-yeah, uh...hi?” It's downright cruel that Kuroo can’t seem to get his words right. Even harsher that all of this: the tripping on words, the doorstep, the sheer shock on Bokuto’s face is way too reminiscent of their first date. “I um, I was cleaning out the back of the closet the other day and I found this,” it's a lie, he knows, but it's one to save any last shred of his dignity that he still may have under Bokuto’s keen eyes. “I just thought you may have wanted it back or something? I hope I didn’t bother…”   
  
Kuroo thinks he sees the faintest of smiles on Bokuto’s face. Small and barely visible, but it's there, and it makes Kuroo’s heart ache with a fondness that he thought he had lost.   
  
“No, no it's not a problem,” he looks down at his feet for a second, so uncharacteristically quiet and still that it makes Kuroo’s hands fidget around the sweatshirt. “Did you - did you want to come in for a minute? If you weren’t busy or anything.”   
  
And this is where Kuroo hesitates. At the threshold of Bokuto’s apartment, a place that he moved into because of him, and his own problems, his own mishaps, and his own goddamn inability to make a good thing work. This is where he stops, wonders what the hell is he doing, why the hell is he doing it? He wants to step back, say no thank you, but I really should be going, cause he shouldn’t be here. Should have never came in the first place, cause he doesn’t know, doesn’t know what he was looking for or even was hoping for when he approached Bokuto’s door.   
  
And yet, he can’t - can’t back away from this chance and whatever it may hold, and he hears himself say, “Only if you’re sure you don’t mind.”   
  
So this is where Kuroo laughs. At himself. On Bokuto’s couch, hands still around that old blue sweatshirt for reasons beyond himself, and he thinks with dry humor that this is the first time he’s ever felt awkward or out of place around Bokuto.   
  
He hears him in the kitchen, making coffee for him, mentioning how he only has some because Akaashi and it only drives home how much of a guest Kuroo is. No longer fitting into a perfect little spot in Bokuto’s home, no longer a place for him in Bokuto’s life, but rather a visitor; only welcome when wanted, and even then Kuroo doesn’t know if that holds true.   
  
But there is still that old blue sweater, now fresh with wrinkles from his own nervousness, that has remained the same. Like his own little token of them and what could have been. Except now, he’s about to give it away, under a pretense of something he isn’t quite sure of, where it will join all the other things he’s lost.   
  
And the only thing Kuroo can say of it is that it sucks. A lot.   
  
“This is the last bit of coffee I have,” Bokuto says when he returns, pressing the mug into Kuroo’s open hands, “Akaashi’s gonna be pissed that I gave away his ‘precious coffee’ but oh well, he’ll live.”   
  
The apartment isn’t much bigger than their - Kuroo’s own. The living room is situated right across from the kitchen and a small round table in the dining area. The living room isn’t any grander either, just a simple TV and a brown leather couch that feels extremely well worn. Bokuto doesn’t sit too far away (maybe it's because the size of the couch) but the gap between them is, at least, noticeable to Kuroo and he tries hard not to think about it too much (maybe it's because he doesn't want to be near him).   
  
Kuroo shuffles his feet against the carpet, Bokuto hasn’t spoken a word since he’s sat down, and it unnerves him, never quite use to silence between each other, much less a silence that was filled with such unnamed tension.  He wants to say something: nice place you’ve got here or how have you been lately, but they all strangle themselves on his tongue, just a reminder of everything that’s gone wrong and Kuroo sips on his coffee to wash back any daring words.   
  
“Just how you like it, yeah?” Bokuto asks, a smug little smile on his face at the melted happiness on Kuroo’s own.   
  
“Yeah… yes, it's perfect.” It’s just a hint of sweetness, a touch away from being completely black. And hot, hot enough to sever taste buds but it's delicious, just to his taste. 

“I’ve missed this...you,” Kuroo says quietly and he immediately wants to take it back at the surprised look on Bokuto’s face. Wishes it would rise with the steam of the coffee and far, far away from where anyone could hear.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, loud, the sound grating, “I didn’t mean to - I mean- I’m just really sorry. I shouldn’t have come here.” He tries to stand up, clumsy on his feet as he tries to balance himself. His heart is racing and his stomach has twisted itself up into knots so small, so painful it feels like small bombs have gone off all over.   
  
But there is a hand on his arm, not pulling, not forceful, calloused but gentle, light like a breeze that can barely be felt. “It’s okay, you don’t have to go,” he says, those soft, electric eyes looking up at him pulling him in like it's done time and time again, “I’m glad you’re here actually.”   
  
Kuroo looks at the sweatshirt, the blue material hiding within the shadows on the couch, and Kuroo thinks that he could just let it go. Let it be there - here - at Bokuto’s small apartment, the space he has made for himself. For so, so many reasons. Reasons that have built up and Kuroo has spent months, wondering if it was inevitable. Something that couldn’t haven’t been avoided, that no matter what happened that night a year ago, would have landed them right back here: In Bokuto’s living room, the light sparsely filtering through the blinds, with a hand on Kuroo’s arm that’s sparked something so familiar in his chest that it clenches almost painfully. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, a sigh heaves out of his chest, heavy and exhausting, but he sits back down, slow like a sinking rock. “I shouldn’t have said that.”   
  
Bokuto hasn’t looked up, but he speaks to his feet, voice light and joking, “If somebody told me earlier that you’d be the one knocking on my door, I wouldn’t have believed them y’know.”

Kuroo smiles, he has no reason to be smiling under these circumstances but god he has missed Bokuto’s voice so much. Missed that voice teasing him, the sound rough in its nature, but never hurtful, never meaning any real harm. And it makes him smile, smile til his face has split so wide that he can’t help but laugh at this point, the sound bubbling up like a shaken up soda til it spills over and he just can’t help it. Can’t help the tears that spill over too, they aren’t beautiful, nothing to write a poem about, but they flow so freely down his face and Kuroo feels equal parts free and pathetic that he’s crying in Bokuto’s home. 

Kuroo sniffles, loud, and it catches Bokuto’s attention. His head snapping up, eyebrows arched in surprise that instantly melts into something soft, something sad, something understanding. “Oh c’mon man don’t cry, you’re gonna make me cry, you know I’m sensitive.”  
  
It's a watery little laugh that he lets out, unstable and prone to breaking like a wave on the shores. “I’ve just missed you so fucking much.” He doesn’t know what he came there for. Doesn’t know what he wanted to happen, but all he’s managed to do is cry and admit painful truths he’s spent a year avoiding. Yet he feels relieved, because it's been a long ass time since he’s done something like this. It's been too long since he’s cried or even allowed himself to feel and accept things fully, always more than ready to bottle things up and put it on the shelf far, far away from where he could ever get to it.   
  
His hands shake in his lap a bit and his toes curl in shoes but it’s time. It’s time he’s done this. “I don’t want you to think that I came over here to make you pity me so we could get back together,” he pauses, closes his eyes. (It’s always been easier to do things in the dark). “After you moved out I never got to - I wasn’t ready to…,” it hurts, his throat is hot and burning, voice falling barely above a whisper, but it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, “I fucked up,” he says resolutely. Quiet and final.   
  
“I never got to apologize and I - I fucked up. I fucked up and I never should have pushed you away like that, never should have treated like you didn’t matter to me cause you did. You do.” Bokuto does not look at him with big wide eyes and a heartfelt expression. Kuroo’s tears are no more beautiful than a dirtied river that flows without end: aware of its soiled existence, aware of its cause. Knows that there is nothing anyone can do about it now, because it's too late. It's been too late for too long and all Kuroo can do is let it be. Let it exist as it does, whole and complete because pain and sorrow does not come in fragments. It does not come chipped and broken, but set on the front porch with the box already open and a self made invitation inside.   
  
Bokuto does not crush him to his chest. Kuroo does not stop crying. And this is not the movies. Because the movies will highlight the ugly. Make it up until it can be slathered on a poster, called the height of cinema, idolized and romanticized for all the world to see it. But this is not the movies. There is nothing to be made up. The ugly exists, raw and uncut, and there is no one to see it but them and the old blue sweater in between.   
  
“I know that's not what you want to hear, after all this time, but it was my fault that things ended and I need you - I need you to know that I still care about you. And I don’t even know what I came here for,” he barks out a laugh. Dry and humorless, borderline hysterical. Because he can’t stop talking and the lump in his throat won’t go away, but he’s scared because he’s never done this before. Scared because for once he’s the one saying too much and Bokuto is saying too little and he doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how to stop. “I just showed up at your house like a dumbass and I - and I -”   
  
“It was my fault too Kuroo.” Bokuto interrupts and the way he looks at him, with gentle understanding, is both shocking and comforting and Kuroo wishes he could wrap himself up in that feeling. But he doesn’t agree, doesn’t think that whatever Bokuto’s going to say is true because it's been a year and he’s thought about it all so much and it's him. It was all him.   
  
But Bokuto’s already knows, already heard his cries and he knows what Kuroo’s going to say and beats him to it. “It was my fault too, and I know you don’t think that, but we both fucked this up. We both could have done things differently y’know. You were hurting, and you were stressed - we both were - and I knew that. I knew that and tried to force you to talk about your parents, and you just weren’t ready. So you pushed me away and I let you do that. I let you push me away and avoided coming home, god, I didn’t want to be there anymore and when I was there; all I did was try to force things out of you, and then we would argue again and it just became a fucked up cycle.  And that's not… that's not us, that not how we were supposed to be.”   
  
Bokuto is quiet when he speaks, hands fidgeting in his lap the same way Kuroo’s own hands move. Because he’s strung out on emotion and he’s desperate to tell Bokuto that he is wrong, that he is so so wrong because none of this would have happened in the first place if it wasn’t for him. But, at the same time, the part that is rational throughout all this, the part not affected by the trials of the heart knows that Bokuto is right. That their end was caused by both of their destruction. And it's a sad truth that they both have had to face. So Kuroo shuts up, keeps his eyes on his feet. He’s talked so much already, and there’s nothing left to be said now so instead he just sits and listens.   
  
“Truth be told I still think about you. A lot!” Bokuto laughs. At himself. Like he can’t even believe what he’s saying. “I had tried so hard to get rid of you, moved out and brought everything with me. Left anything that reminded me of you and yet - I couldn’t stop thinking of you. I couldn't get you out of my head and you wouldn’t even believe it, but I tried dating again. But every time I went out with someone all I could think about is you. Because it always comes back down to you Kuroo, no matter how hard I try, it's always you. Pathetic isn’t it?”   
  
This not the movies and Kuroo does not passionately kiss Bokuto when he catches the way tears well up in his eyes but he wishes he could. He wishes he could hold Bokuto forever, he wishes that things never got to this point. But it is, and he can’t change that now, and he even though his hands ache to touch him, he settles for letting them clench and shake in his lap.   
  
“No, no that's not pathetic. Thats - I still think about you too. I never stopped thinking about you. Because I - I still love you Koutarou. I’m still in love with you and I don’t know what to do. It's been a whole year and no matter how hard I tried not to think about you, tried to forget how it felt to be with you; I’m still in love with you and it scares the absolute shit outta of me. I don’t know what to do anymore, so please tell me what to do. I just wanna move on, I'm tired and I want to move on and it hurts and I need you tell me what to do.”   
  
“I’m still in love with you Tetsu, I can’t deny that okay, but things aren’t like they used to be, you know that. We’re both still in a lot of pain, there's obviously a lot of things we both need to work on. So, if we’re gonna-” Bokuto pauses, and Kuroo’s chest hurts with the fast pace of his heart cause he’s scared, and he’s hopeful, and the way Bokuto looks at him; soft but resilient, is something of wonders, something that leaves him breathless and his heart chases after every word Bokuto speaks. “-if we’re gonna do this again, we both have to work on it, on us. I want you back in my life, not as friends or strangers or any of that, because I love you and I wanna go back to us being… us. But only if we can both put in the effort to make that happen, okay?”   
  
And this is not the movies. And the tears on Kuroo’s face are not pretty or beautiful, or something to be written about. And Bokuto does not take his face into his hands and kisses his lips until the world stops turning. But this is life, and this is them, and their tears, and their pain, and their love; raw and uncut in all its ugliness. Complete and whole because such things do not come in fragments, but in cut open boxes on front door steps. So Kuroo holds out his hand, because it is too early and he is too afraid to ask for anything more, and Bokuto takes it in his, with those gentle electric hands, and rests it atop that old blue sweater. 

* * *

 

Sometimes the sky is purple. 

Deep and swirling with untouchable softness, it is purple, melting into pink.   
  
Sometimes the sky is purple, hanging heavy over train tracks with purpose and Kuroo chases it. Wonders where he can find that color, down here on earth, and capture the feeling it gives him forever.   
  
His mother greets him at the train station with teary eyes and a too tight hug. She comes up to his chest now, Kuroo doesn’t remember when he’d gotten so tall. 

“I missed you,” she says, already reaching for his luggage.   
  
He laughs, softly, taking the suitcase out of her hands. Tells her that “she says that now” as they walk to the car.   
  
She shakes her head, the same way she’s been doing all his life.   
  
He misses her too, in honest.   
  
Bokuto returns home the same time as Kuroo. He always does, somehow.   
  
He throws pebbles at Kuroo’s window, standing under the street lamp outside like he’s right out of a movie.   
  
Kuroo is already out the door before he can even wonder about what are they doing.   
  
Sometimes the sky is purple and Bokuto throws pebbles at his window, with a too familiar grin, just to drag him out to an outdoor volleyball court with an old ball he found hidden away in his bedroom closet.   
  
University has been good to him. He spikes harder now, ball thrumming pain into Kuroo’s fingers. He’s more focused, more in control; knows where he’s going to hit the ball, how and when, with frightening accuracy.   
  
Kuroo tells him as such, when they’re too worn out to play anymore.   
  
“You should play again, on your university’s team. So we could play against each other again like old times,” Bokuto replies, wistful. His hand covers Kuroo’s, intertwining their fingers together. Kuroo doesn’t remember when they’ve started doing that, only knows he dreads the day of when they might stop.     
  
The asphalt is still warm, despite the late hour. Kuroo rests on it, lets the heat warm his back like a loving caress.   
  
“You know I can’t do that,” he tells him.   
  
Bokuto scrunches up his nose, sits up, agitated. “What’s stopping you?”   
  
They’ve had this conversation before. Bokuto feels like Kuroo can do anything. Everything.   
  
Kuroo says otherwise. “Studies. My parents. Everything. It’s just not going to work, there’s no way I could.”   
  
Bokuto doesn’t turn to look at him, keeps his back to him, quiet. University has been good to him. His shoulders are broader. Jawline sharper. Back stronger, more muscle, and his hands more calloused.   
  
Kuroo wonders how they’ve both changed so much and yet so little.   
  
“I wish I could y’know,” Kuroo squeezes his hand. Bokuto’s shoulders relax a bit. “It’d be better playing with you though.”   
  
Sometimes the sky is purple, with buzzing fireflies that match the emerging stars and Bokuto is silent.   
  
He looks out into the horizon, where the colors blur and meld together, indistinguishable from each other. Bokuto is neither quiet or still, pulling Kuroo’s hand to his face, pulling him up with the movement, studying the differences between them.   
  
Sometimes the sky is purple and Bokuto speaks quietly, breath rushing against their hands with his words.   
  
“What’s stopping you?” He asks.   
  
Kuroo watches the way Bokuto studies their hands. Studies him.   
  
He’s not talking about volleyball anymore.   
  
“You live so freely,” he comments. It is both an aversion and a honest reply.   
  
Bokuto runs his thumb over the back of Kuroo’s hand, eyes flitting back to the melting horizon. His voice is still quiet when he speaks, but it is steady and solid. “What are you afraid of?”   
  
“You.”   
  
Sometimes the sky is purple and Kuroo is afraid to tell the truth but he does it anyway.   
  
Sometimes the sky is purple and the glowing fireflies buzzing around are the same color of Bokuto’s eyes. They complement each other. Kuroo thinks he can see the purple reflecting in Bokuto’s eyes.   
  
“That’s not it,” Bokuto says, earnest.  University has been good to him. He’s more perceptive. Intuitive. Kuroo wishes he could dislike him for it.   
  
“What more do you need?” Bokuto asks. He is an endless supply of questions. Kuroo only hopes that he can give him the answers.   
  
“I don’t really know anymore.”   
  
Kuroo stares out into the horizon. His hands doesn’t shake, nor do they tremble. His heart isn’t racing and he doesn’t feel a blush creeping along his cheeks. He is calm, still, the horizon is steady and he thinks he’s waited long enough.   
  
“I’m ready,” he says, to the fireflies glowing ahead, “I’m not waiting for anything anymore.”   
  
“Are you sure?”   
  
Bokuto squeezes his hand and Kuroo looks down to study the way they curl around each other. How they seem to fit perfectly together despite their differences.  Despite the way they’ve grown.   
  
“Of course,” he breathes.   
  
Sometimes the sky is purple and Kuroo wonders why he’d been chasing that feeling for so long when it was right there on Bokuto’s lips all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the second part took a lot longer than expected but I am still more than happy to say I have finally completed this story. Writing this story sure was something and probably the hardest thing I've worked on to date. 
> 
> Thank you to GG once again for everything you do. And thank you to everyone who takes the time out to read my writing, it really and truly means a lot. 
> 
> I still have a lot of things to say about this fic. Come talk to me on [my writing blog](http://writing-wyns.tumblr.com/) about it or anything else!

**Author's Note:**

> The second part should be up not too much longer. I hope that you all will stick with this story just a bit longer as I continue to write and polish things up. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, it means the world to me especially with this story that is so near and dear to me.


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